tently, and panted for breath; it looked as though he had but a few weeks more to live. He was nearly dead with fatigue, and fell, rather than sat, into a chair. The rest bowed as they came in; and being more or less abashed, put on an air of extreme self-assurance. In short, their attitude was not that which one would have expected in men who professed to despise all trivialities, all foolish mundane conventions, and indeed everything, except their own personal interests.
‘Antip Burdovsky,’ stuttered the son of Pavlicheff. ‘Vladimir Doktorenko,’ said Lebedeff’s nephew briskly,
and with a certain pride, as if he boasted of his name. ‘Keller,’ murmured the retired oficer.
‘Hippolyte Terentieff,’ cried the last-named, in a shrill voice.
They sat now in a row facing the prince, and frowned, and played with their caps. All appeared ready to speak, and yet all were silent; the defiant expression on their faces seemed to say, ‘No, sir, you don’t take us in!’ It could be felt that the first word spoken by anyone present would bring a torrent of speech from the whole deputation.
VIII
IDID not expect you, gentlemen,’ began the prince. I have been ill until to-day. A month ago,’ he continued, ad-
dressing himself to Antip Burdovsky, ‘I put your business into Gavrila Ardalionovitch Ivolgin’s hands, as I told you then. I do not in the least object to having a personal in-terview … but you will agree with me that this is hardly the time … I propose that we go into another room, if you will not keep me long… As you see, I have friends here, and be-lieve me …’
‘Friends as many as you please, but allow me,’ interrupt-ed the harsh voice of Lebedeff’s nephew—‘ allow me to tell you that you might have treated us rather more politely, and not have kept us waiting at least two hours …
‘No doubt … and I … is that acting like a prince? And you … you may be a general! But I … I am not your valet! And I … I…’ stammered Antip Burdovsky.
He was extremely excited; his lips trembled, and the resentment of an embittered soul was in his voice. But he spoke so indistinctly that hardly a dozen words could be gathered.
‘It was a princely action!’ sneered Hippolyte.
‘If anyone had treated me so,’ grumbled the boxer.
‘I mean to say that if I had been in Burdovsky’s place… I…’
‘Gentlemen, I did not know you were there; I have only just been informed, I assure you,’ repeated Muishkin.
‘We are not afraid of your friends, prince,’ remarked Leb-edeff’s nephew, ‘for we are within our rights.’
The shrill tones of Hippolyte interrupted him. ‘What right have you … by what right do you demand us to sub-mit this matter, about Burdovsky … to the judgment of your friends? We know only too well what the judgment of your friends will be! …’
This beginning gave promise of a stormy discussion. The prince was much discouraged, but at last he managed to make himself heard amid the vociferations of his excited visitors.
‘If you,’ he said, addressing Burdovsky—‘if you prefer not to speak here, I offer again to go into another room with you … and as to your waiting to see me, I repeat that I only this instant heard …’
‘Well, you have no right, you have no right, no right at all!… Your friends indeed!’… gabbled Burdovsky, defiant-ly examining the faces round him, and becoming more and more excited. ‘You have no right!…’ As he ended thus abruptly, he leant forward, staring at the prince with his short-sighted, bloodshot eyes. The latter was so astonished, that he did not reply, but looked steadily at him in return.
‘Lef Nicolaievitch!’ interposed Madame Epanchin, sud-denly, ‘read this at once, this very moment! It is about this business.’
She held out a weekly comic paper, pointing to an article on one of its pages. Just as the visitors were coming in, Leb-
edeff, wishing to ingratiate himself with the great lady, had pulled this paper from his pocket, and presented it to her, indicating a few columns marked in pencil. Lizabetha Pro-kofievna had had time to read some of it, and was greatly upset.
‘Would it not be better to peruse it alone …’ later asked the prince, nervously.
‘No, no, read it—read it at once directly, and aloud, aloud!’ cried she, calling Colia to her and giving him the journal.—‘ Read it aloud, so that everyone may hear it!’
An impetuous woman, Lizabetha Prokofievna sometimes weighed her anchors and put out to sea quite regardless of the possible storms she might encounter. Ivan Fedorovitch felt a sudden pang of alarm, but the others were merely cu-rious, and somewhat surprised. Colia unfolded the paper, and began to read, in his clear, high-pitched voice, the fol-lowing article:
‘Proletarians and scions of nobility! An episode of the brigandage of today and every day! Progress! Reform! Jus-tice!’
‘Strange things are going on in our so-called Holy Rus-sia in this age of reform and great enterprises; this age of patriotism in which hundreds of millions are yearly sent abroad; in which industry is encouraged, and the hands of Labour paralyzed, etc.; there is no end to this, gentlemen, so let us come to the point. A strange thing has happened to a scion of our defunct aristocracy. (DE PROFUNDIS!) The grandfathers of these scions ruined themselves at the gaming-tables; their fathers were forced to serve as oficers
or subalterns; some have died just as they were about to be tried for innocent thoughtlessness in the handling of pub-lic funds. Their children are sometimes congenital idiots, like the hero of our story; sometimes they are found in the dock at the Assizes, where they are generally acquitted by the jury for edifying motives; sometimes they distinguish themselves by one of those burning scandals that amaze the public and add another blot to the stained record of our age. Six months ago—that is, last winter—this particular scion returned to Russia, wearing gaiters like a foreigner, and shiv-ering with cold in an old scantily-lined cloak. He had come from Switzerland, where he had just undergone a successful course of treatment for idiocy (SIC!). Certainly Fortune fa-voured him, for, apart from the interesting malady of which he was cured in Switzerland (can there be a cure for idiocy?) his story proves the truth of the Russian proverb that ‘hap-piness is the right of certain classes!’ Judge for yourselves. Our subject was an infant in arms when he lost his father, an oficer who died just as he was about to be court-mar-tialled for gambling away the funds of his company, and perhaps also for flogging a subordinate to excess (remem-ber the good old days, gentlemen). The orphan was brought up by the charity of a very rich Russian landowner. In the good old days, this man, whom we will call P—, owned four thousand souls as serfs (souls as serfs!—can you understand such an expression, gentlemen? I cannot; it must be looked up in a dictionary before one can understand it; these things of a bygone day are already unintelligible to us). He appears to have been one of those Russian parasites who lead an idle
existence abroad, spending the summer at some spa, and the winter in Paris, to the greater profit of the organizers of public balls. It may safely be said that the manager of the Chateau des Fleurs (lucky man!) pocketed at least a third of the money paid by Russian peasants to their lords in the days of serfdom. However this may be, the gay P— brought up the orphan like a prince, provided him with tutors and governesses (pretty, of course!) whom he chose himself in Paris. But the little aristocrat, the last of his noble race, was an idiot. The governesses, recruited at the Chateau des Fleu-rs, laboured in vain; at twenty years of age their pupil could not speak in any language, not even Russian. But ignorance of the latter was still excusable. At last P— was seized with a strange notion; he imagined that in Switzerland they could change an idiot into a mail of sense. After all, the idea was quite logical; a parasite and landowner naturally supposed that intelligence was a marketable commodity like every-thing else, and that in Switzerland especially it could be bought for money. The case was entrusted to a celebrated Swiss professor, and cost thousands of roubles; the treat-ment lasted five years. Needless to say, did not become intelligent, but it is alleged that he grew into some-thing more or less resembling a man. At this stage P— died suddenly, and, as usual, he had made no will and left his affairs in disorder. A crowd of eager claimants arose, who cared nothing about any last scion of a noble race undergo-ing treatment in Switzerland, at the expense of the deceased, as a congenital idiot. Idiot though he was, the noble scion tried to cheat his professor, and they say he succeeded in
getting him to continue the treatment gratis for two years, by concealing the death of his benefactor. But the profes-sor himself was a charlatan. Getting anxious at last when no money was forthcoming, and alarmed above
